The Devil's Workshop
by iyaorisha
Summary: Buffy and Spike's fragile new relationship is tested when Angel returns to Sunnydale, bringing with him a mysterious young woman from Spike's dark past. WIP updated through Ch. 4.
1. Chapter 1: A Trouble That Can't Be Named

The Devil's Workshop  
By iyaorisha  
  
Timing: AU S7 BtVS and AU S4 AtS  
  
Pairings: Buffy/Spike, Angel/Cordy, Xander/Anya, Willow/other and Wesley/other.  
  
Summary: Buffy and Spike's fragile new relationship is tested when Angel returns to Sunnydale, bringing with him a mysterious young woman from Spike's dark past. (Revised, with chapter titles!)  
  
(This fic is part one of a yet-untitled series in progress. It can be read on its own or after my "Unmoved" series -four linked fics that chronicle my take on reensouled Spike's return to Sunnydale)  
  
Rating/Warnings: R for violence, language, M/F sexual situations, and self-mutiliation.  
  
Spoilers: None if you've seen S6 of BtVS and up through "Deep Down" in Ats S4. Spoilers for my "Unmoved" fanfic series. References to FFL, the trade novels "Pretty Maids All in a Row" and "Little Things", and my fanfic "Relating to a Psychopath.  
  
Disclaimer: None of the BtVS or AtS characters or the world they inhabit belong to me. They belong to Joss and I promise to put them back when I'm done playing with them. Chapter 1 title is from "Clocks" by Coldplay.  
  
Author's Note: Reading (and for me, writing) Buffyverse fanfiction is a great form of escapism. Unfortunately, "cutting" or self-mutilation is a very real and terribly serious disorder that affects as many as one out of every 200 adolescent girls in the U.S. If you or someone that you know practices "cutting", please seek help from your local medical/mental health expert.  
  
Feedback: My first BtVs/AtS fanfic! Brutal honesty is best (I enjoy floggings, I really do), but warm fuzzies are accepted as well. You can post a review here or email me at fanfic_by_iyaorisha@yahoo.com  
  
***  
Chapter 1: A Trouble That Can't Be Named  
  
Dawn wondered how old she'd be before she learned that mixing your favorite foods together usually didn't end well. She sighed and turned on the faucet to wash the pepperoni omelet down the garbage disposal. As the device whirred, she thought that she heard the doorbell ring. When she flicked the switch off, there was another urgent buzz  
  
"Hold on," she called out. Buffy must have left her keys again. Her sister was doing that a lot lately -misplacing little things and forgetting appointments. As she opened the door, Dawn prepared to chide her sister.  
  
To her shock, Angel stood there.   
  
As she gaped at him, a wry smile twisted his mouth. "Are you going to let me in, Dawn? Or are you waiting for the sun to get any higher?" The tall vampire was hunched under a thick wool blanket, but wisps of smoke were already beginning to curl upward from his clothing.  
  
"Oh!" Dawn stammered. "Yes, come in. Sorry, I forgot!" The teen moved out of the way and Angel gratefully stepped inside. Dawn pushed the door to shut it, but the swinging motion was cut short. She looked back in surprise to see a tall, dark-haired man that she didn't know. He was standing with one foot on sill blocking the door. She couldn't see all of his body, but the narrow opening showed a lean, stubble-darkened face with haunted eyes. Like Angel, the stranger was draped in a heavy blanket.  
  
"Angel?!" Dawn called anxiously.   
  
Too busy scanning the room, the vampire didn't turn. "It's okay. He's with me. Let him in."  
  
Dawn smiled sheepishly at the stranger. "I apologize. You are invited to enter."  
  
His eyes showed a trace of amusement. "I don't need an invitation," he paused. "But I wouldn't mind a hand with the door. My arms are full."  
  
So he's human, she thought as she pulled the door fully open. As he entered, the man nodded his head in thanks, but Dawn didn't see the gesture. Instead, she looked at his burden -a body-shaped bundle of blanket. When laid upon the sofa, the blanket fell aside to reveal a young woman. Her eyes were heavily fringed with dark lashes and the same dark grey as the wool she had been swathed in. They would have been arresting if they hadn't been lifeless.  
  
Dawn stepped back. "Is she dead?" she gasped.  
  
"If only it was that simple." Angel's companion said as he arranged the young woman's form to a half-sitting position. In a gesture that was odd contrast to his brusque tone, he gently slipped a pillow beneath her head. The blankness of the young woman's eyes did not change in the slightest.   
  
The younger Summers stared. If this young woman wasn't dead, what did her utterly expressionless face mean? Dawn's voice betrayed her rising panic. "Angel, what is going on?"   
  
"Where's your sister?" was his only reply.  
  
***  
  
Xander's heart pounded in his chest as he ran. He entered thoughts of just giving up, but then there was Anya and Willow to consider. How could he stop after all they had been through? After all, they had taken a two-hour power yoga class the night before.  
  
Why had he volunteered to accompany them? He never worked out with Buffy. Not when they were in high school and certainly not now that Giles was training her harder than ever.   
  
Xander couldn't understand why Anya and Willow were out running either. Anya had excellent metabolism and naturally superb muscle tone thanks to her demonhood. Willow had never been athletic and loathed sweating. But lately, both had taken up a particularly strenuous form of yoga. Then they had started running with Buffy in the mornings. After a couple weeks, Dawn joined in so that early risers were treated to a quartet of attractive young women moving through the streets of Sunnydale like gazelles.  
  
This morning, bleary with sleep, Xander watched Anya step into her white New Balance running shoes. He lazily stretched an arm out and caressed one rounded buttock through her jersey running pants. She swatted his hand away with a promise of "Later". He complained that, as usual she'd linger at Buffy's after the run and then head to the Magic Box to open for Giles. "I should go along," he threatened idly. "Make sure you get back here in time to make love." It was meant to be sort of joke.   
  
Unfortunately, that sort of joke was the kind Anya always seemed to not get. It turned out that Dawn was feeling a bit under the weather and decided to ignore Buffy's 5:30 AM wake-up call. The girls would love his company.  
  
So, now, he was out running with them. Not nearly as graceful a runner as even Dawnie. And more than a little resentful that he was struggling to keep up. Falling far behind Buffy, he could understand. No one else human had that kind of speed and stamina. But Anya and Willow? Especially after the workout they got from Geetha three nights a week.  
  
It wasn't like he was out of shape. Xander made sure to hit the gym at least four times a week to keep his frame from returning to the flab he'd picked up around the time of the not-wedding. In some ways, he was in the peak physical condition of his life. But, the girls were running as if they were Olympic champions.  
  
Why? The part of Alexander Lavelle Harris's mind that handled despising magick and keeping a jaundiced eye on the evil that fueled the Hellmouth was deeply worried about this sudden fitness craze. Were they unconsciously training to run away from something?   
  
Before he could ponder this disturbing possibility further, they turned the corner and were finally back on Revello Drive. When they were less than two blocks away from the Summers' house, Buffy's pace changed. At first, he thought that she was slowing instinctively, then he saw that she was staring at a strange vehicle parked in front of her house. The blonde sped up again. She sprinted across the street and cut through three front lawns to reach her door.  
  
***  
  
Dawn barely had time to react, but Angel and Wesley both fell into fighting stances as the front door burst open.   
  
Her sister stood there panting, her own petite body poised to fight.  
  
Then, there were twin blurs as the Slayer and vampire moved toward each other. It was less an embrace than a dance. Then, reality sunk in and both were sober as Angel set Buffy on her feet. She stepped back and awkwardly pushed loose strands of damp hair back from her sweat-shiny face.  
  
"Angel." Buffy turned her head. "Wesley."  
  
The dark haired stranger held out his hand. "Good to see you, Buffy." They shook hands. "How's Giles?"  
  
"He's well." She paused. "I'd say that he'll be pleased to see you. But that would be a lie. The two of you wouldn't come to Sunnydale if there wasn't trouble."  
  
Neither man bothered to deny it. Buffy knew they wouldn't, but still her shoulders fell a little. She was so tired. Would it hurt for things to lay quiet for a few months?  
  
There was a sudden staccato of sneezing. The Slayer glanced at the sofa where the young woman lay. "You brought a guest."  
  
Wesley nodded.  
  
"Is she the trouble?"  
  
"Yes." Angel replied.  
  
Wes shot him an angry glance, but the vampire didn't notice. Angel looked at Buffy.  
"We need to find Spike."  
  
***  
  
Three exhausted Scoobies staggered in just in time to hear Angel's last words. The vampire barely turned his head, but he did roll his eyes at the racket Xander made falling to the floor.  
  
"Why do you need to find Spike?" Dawn asked.  
  
Wes turned to her "Do you know where he is?"  
  
"He's not here."  
  
"I know. But," the vampire paused and his nostrils flared. "He's been here recently. Why?"   
  
Dawn opened her mouth, but the look on Buffy's face stopped her. "Why are you looking for Spike?" her sister demanded.  
  
"I'll tell you later." Angel said.  
  
"You'll tell me now." Buffy replied.  
  
Angel ignored her and walked over to the door where Anya was helping Xander stand. "Anya." He said quietly. Then, his upper lip twitched as he caught her scent. "Or more accurately, Anyanka. You're a vengeance demon again, aren't you?"  
  
She nodded in assent.  
  
"Where is Spike?"  
  
Anya hesitated. Buffy was shaking her head vehemently and Dawn looked terrified. Anya disliked Angel anyway. "I don't know."  
  
The vampire sighed. "What if I told you that a girl has been terribly wronged?"   
  
"What?" she asked.  
  
Angel leaned close to her. He wasn't touching any part of her body, but he was still too close. Worse, his voice dropped to a honeyed shade above a whisper so that his next words to Anya sounded horribly intimate as if they were the only ones in the room and he was about to tell her some delicious secret. "That girl on the sofa has been...damaged."  
  
Anya stared at the strange girl. Yes, it was clear. Someone had hurt her.  
  
"It makes you angry, Anyanka."  
  
She swallowed and again, all her senses shrunk to his low voice in her ears. "Yes, she's crying out to be avenged. And you don't even have to lift one lovely finger to punish the man who did it. Just tell me where Spike is?"  
  
Anya's eyes closed. Part of her knew that he was manipulating her, but all the other parts didn't care. Her only desire was to please Angel. If that meant telling him where Spike was, so be it. Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue darted out to moisten them before she spoke.  
  
Xander groaned and yanked Anya away from the vampire. "Snap out of it, Ahn. He's got you in thrall."  
  
While Anya struggled to focus on Xander, a furious Buffy confronted Angel. "Why did you put her in thrall? How dare you violate my house that way!"  
  
"You weren't willing to tell me."  
  
The former lovers glared at each other. Then, Angel looked away, clearly ashamed. "Sorry, Buffy. I'll apologize to Anya. But we're fairly desperate."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I can't tell you just yet. There's some things that I have to find out first. And only Spike can answer them. Do you know where he is?"  
  
Buffy hesitated, then she nodded.   
  
"Tell me."  
  
"Okay, but let me get Giles first."  
  
***  
  
It turned out that Giles was already on his way over. As Buffy predicted, he was not pleased to see the visitors from LA. Still, he shook hands and murmured pleasantries before getting down to the business at hand.  
  
If Giles thought that such a greeting would put Angel and Wesley at ease, he was mistaken. The two were adamant that they learn Spike's whereabouts before they shared the reason they were in Sunnydale. Their tenacity worried the older Watcher.  
  
Meanwhile, Buffy had concerns of her own. A surreptitious phone call had revealed Spike wasn't at his apartment. Now, she had no idea where he was.   
  
Angel was angry when she told him.  
  
"Look, he'll be here after sunset."  
  
"You're certain?" Wesley asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
The vampire shook his head. "She's not certain, Wes. You can't be certain with Spike. He might say he's coming back, then disappear for two weeks."  
  
"I said he'll be here after sunset." Buffy said heatedly  
  
Angel looked at her strangely. "Why are you so sure?"  
  
"They're dating." Anya piped up. "But they're not sleeping together again."  
  
It would have been laughable, if it hadn't been the moment Buffy was dreading. She didn't dare look at Angel as his shock gave way to a palpable pain.  
  
Finally, he spoke. "We drove all night, Buffy. Both Wesley and I are exhausted. Do you think I could get a cup of coffee."  
  
"Sure." Buffy looked at Wes. "Tea?"  
  
"Yes, please."  
  
She started to head into the kitchen. Then she paused. "Would you like..." her voice trailed off. It was always awkward offering Angel blood.  
  
The vampire looked at her expectantly.  
  
"Um, do you..."  
  
Anya rolled her eyes. "Buffy wants to know if you'd like some blood."  
  
"You have blood in the house." It was a statement, not a question.  
  
Buffy blushed. "It's for Spike."  
  
Angel started to say something, then thought the better of it. "Please bring a mug of it." He flicked his eyes at Wesley who gave an almost imperceptible nod that the others missed. "Actually, two please. Warmed."  
  
She nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.  
  
Dawn wanted to follow her sister, but she sense that Buffy needed a moment alone to regain her composure. So she sat in silence with Giles, the Scoobies and the visits. There was a clatter of crockery from the other room that sounded as if something had been dashed against a wall. But ten minutes later, when the blonde reemerged, a tray in hand, she seemed less rattled. Likewise, when Angel took his mugs of black coffee and blood from her, his shoulders were less stiff.  
  
The Slayer set the tray down on the coffee table. "I'm sorry, Wes. I don't remember how you take your tea."  
  
"It has been long, hasn't it Buffy." The ex-Watcher smiled. Then, to her horror, he reached not for the steaming cup of tea, but the second mug of blood.  
  
***  
  
Buffy's own blood ran not a whit less cold as Wes tipped the mug not to his own lips, but those of the young woman next to him. Those vacant eyes did not change as her throat swallowed reflexively, but the rest of her face underwent a disturbing transformation. No matter how many times she saw it, Buffy's heart would always sink when the human mask was dropped.  
  
"A vampire!"  
  
Wesley gently "No quite."  
  
Buffy laughed. "There's no 'not quite' when it comes to being a vampire. That's like saying someone's a little pregnant."  
  
Angel shook his head. "Go ahead, Wes."  
  
The ex-Watcher nodded. He gently scooped the girl up and walked to the door. For one awkward moment, he juggled his burden to one arm, but then he opened the door in a single smooth motion. And strode out into the sunlight. 


	2. Chapter 2

The Devil's Workshop  
By iyaorisha  
  
Timing: AU S7 BtVS and AU S4 AtS  
  
Pairings: Buffy/Spike, Angel/Cordy, Xander/Anya, Willow/other, and Wesley/other.  
  
Summary: Buffy and Spike's fragile new relationship is tested when Angel returns to Sunnydale, bringing with him a mysterious young woman from Spike's dark past. WIP.  
  
(This fic is part one of a yet-untitled series in progress. It can be read on its own or after my "Unmoved" series -four linked fics that chronicle my take on reensouled Spike's return to Sunnydale)  
  
Rating/Warnings: R for violence, language, M/F sexual situations, and self-mutilation.  
  
Spoilers: None if you've seen S6 of Buffy and S3 of Angel. References to FFL, the trade novel "Pretty Maids All in a Row", and my fanfics "Relating to a Psychopath" and the "Unmoved" series.  
  
Disclaimer: None of the BtVS or AtS characters or the world they inhabit belong to me. They belong to Joss and I promise to put them back when I'm done playing with them.  
  
Author's Note: Reading (and for me, writing) Buffyverse fanfiction is a great form of escapism. Unfortunately, "cutting" or self-mutilation is a very real and terribly serious disorder that affects as many as one out of every 200 adolescent girls in the U.S. If you or someone that you know practices "cutting", please seek help from your local medical/mental health expert.  
  
Feedback: My first BtVs/AtS fanfic! Brutal honesty is best (I enjoy floggings, I really do), but warm fuzzies are accepted as well. You can post a review here or email me at fanfic_by_iyaorisha@yahoo.com  
***  
  
Chapter 2:  
  
The girl shrieked as the first rays of Southern California sunlight hit her exposed skin. She clawed at Wesley, trying to break free of his arms. It was akin to watching someone force a toddler into a scalding hot bath.  
  
"Stop it, Wesley!" Buffy demanded. She would have gone after him, but Angel grabbed her arm and held her fast. All the Slayer could do was join the others in watching helplessly from the doorway while Wesley moved purposefully to the middle of the lawn where there was no shade.   
  
Though the girl fought him, the ex-Watcher whispered soothingly in her ear. Eventually, she stopped screaming and her struggles subsided to quaking. More importantly, she did not burst into flame. There was not a single whiff of smoke in the air. No smell of burning flesh or clothing.  
  
Buffy and Giles both stared. "What is she?" Buffy asked softly.  
  
"Not quite a vampire," was Angel's terse answer.  
  
Wesley called from the lawn. "I think that's enough."  
  
Angel looked at the faces around him before he replied. The expressions ranged from pure shock to horror. "Yes, bring her in."  
  
Buffy and the others moved aside as Wesley carried the girl back in. She began calming as soon as she was out of the sunlight and had completely lapsed back into a catatonic state as he got her settled back on the sofa. By the time Wes draped the wool blanket over her still form, her grey eyes were blank again.  
  
Giles leaned over the sofa and reached out a hand toward the girl. Wesley tensed immediately, his eyes hard with suspicion. Giles gave a short laugh. "I don't mean her harm, man. I just want to verify that she isn't burnt."  
  
"She's not."  
  
Nonetheles, the older Englishman methodically examined the girl's exposed skin. It was undamaged. In fact, the only evidence of her recent ordeal were two hectic spots of color on her cheeks.  
  
"She's flushed," Giles breathed. "That means..." He broke off as he grabbed her wrist. It took only seconds to confirm his suspicions. The girl had a pulse, a strong and healthy one judging by the second hand on his watch. Verily, more steady than his own at this moment.   
  
"What is it, Giles?" Buffy said.  
  
"A vampire with a beating heart and the ability to withstand the light of day."  
  
"Not a vampire." Wesley stroked her gamine-short dark hair. "She's a damphyr."  
  
Buffy shook her head. "I don't know what that is."  
  
"A vampire-human hybrid." Giles explained. "And, she can't possibly be one. They don't exist. Vampires are sterile."  
  
"Not all." The other Watcher replied as Angel choked on his coffee. The Scoobies turned wondering eyes at him.  
  
"Angel?" Buffy said softly.  
  
There was no gentle way to say it. "I have a son."  
  
Dawn marveled at her sister's inner strength as Buffy managed to say "Congratulations," without her voice breaking.  
  
Angel shook his head. "I'm not sure they're in order. Things with Connor are... complicated."  
  
Dawn hated how adults said something was "complicated" when they really meant "utterly screwed up" or "completely shitty".  
  
"Connor." Buffy said. The Slayer repeated the name again as if testing herself. Then, she raised her eyes to his. Only the thinnest glaze of tears made her green irises shimmer. "Why are things complicated with your son?"  
  
"Let me guess." Xander spoke up. "Baby mama drama?"  
  
Angel shot him a withering look. But Xander had broached the topic that had flitted through the minds of all the Scoobies. And Anya would hardly drop it now. "Who is the mother?"  
  
The vampire closed his eyes. "Darla."  
  
"Impossible." Giles stood up. "There's nothing in the chronicles about the two of you having a child."  
  
Wesley spoke up. "There wouldn't be. No one from the Watcher's Council has made an entry in Darla's record for nearly seven years."  
  
"And why should they?" Giles scoffed. "Darla is no longer the Council's concern. She's dust."  
  
"Was dust," Wes said. Then, he corrected himself. "And, now dust again."  
  
"Good Lord, man!" Giles breathed. "Do you mean to tell me..."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"When?"  
  
"Just over two years."  
  
"And the child?"  
  
"Not quite eighteen months ago."  
  
"No." Giles shook his head. "How?"  
  
A grim smile passed across Wesley's face. "Yes, well that is still a mystery."  
  
Dawn had no idea what the two Englishmen were talking about. And, she didn't care. All her attention was focused on her sister. After learning the identity of Connor's mother, Buffy could no longer disguise her anguish. "Darla?" she whispered. "Darla came back two years ago and you had a baby with her."  
  
Angel's own pain was evident. "Connor's not a baby, Buffy. Not anymore. I'll explain all that later. We need to focus on Lark right now."  
  
"Lark?" Giles asked.  
  
"That's her name." Wesley explained. "Lark Danilov." Again, there was a note of tenderness in his voice. But it was replaced by defiance as he stood up. "And she is a damphyr."  
  
Giles opened his mouth to disagree. Then, he stopped himself. Perhaps such a thing was possible in light of the revelation about Connor. "Explain."  
  
Angel took a sip of his rapidly cooling coffee before he spoke. "About three weeks ago, Wes went to an auction at a ranch outside Reynosa." He noted the puzzled looks. "That's in Tamaulipas."  
  
"Oh," Willow said excitedly. "That's a state in Northeastern Mexico. Tara and I went there over Winter Break one year."  
  
It was Angel's turn to be confused. "Tamaulipas isn't exactly Cancun."  
  
The redhead smiled. "I know that it's mostly maquiladoras near the U.S. border, but actually, Tamaulipas has great beaches up by the Gulf of Mexico." She laughed. "We didn't exactly head down there to sunbathe. It's a very diverse state. Besides the Gulf coast tourists traps, a lot of people go for the colonial architecture. And, there's ecotourism in the rainforests and desert. Plus, in the far south, there's over a thousand pre-Columbian temple sites that were dedicated to female deities who refused human sacrifices. My anthro professor said there's no other place in Mesoamerica like it." She shivered. "He was right. There's a lot of power there."  
  
Wes nodded. "As a result, Tamaulipas become a locus for the black market trade in pre-Columbian Aztec antiquities. There's also a secondary trade in occulterie of all types. There is a collector, Anselmo Molinero Sanz, who holds a thrice-yearly auction on his hunting ranch."  
  
"Wesley was looking for the Aicila translation of the Scrolls of Lemchai," explained Angel.  
  
The older ex-Watcher nodded. "I heard that was on the market. But likely a fake."  
  
Wesley shrugged. "It was worth checking out. "  
  
"So, it was a fake then," Giles muttered.  
  
"I've purchased authentic rarities from Molinero before." Wesley said defensively.  
  
Ignoring the ex-Watchers, Angel continued. "Security was much tighter than usual at the auction so he suspected that something unusual was up for bid. He called me."  
  
"Angel and Gunn showed up just in time." Wesley said.  
  
"In time for what?" Willow asked at the same time as Xander asked, "Who's Gunn?"  
  
Wesley seemed to be reliving it as he spoke. "It was like a slave auction. They carried her out and stood her on the dais. 'Female Damphyr' the auctioneer cried. And the bidding started at $2 million dollars."  
  
Giles and the Scoobies all glanced at Lark. It didn't seem possible. Despite the blooddrinking and fear of sunlight, she just looked too normal. Could something as exotic as a damphyr masquerade as a typical American girl in her early twenties?   
  
Wes continued. "She wasn't like you see her now. She was terrified. As the auction progressed, the bidders began to make...demands."  
  
Buffy wasn't sure that she wanted to know exactly what Wes meant, but Angel didn't give her that option.   
  
"Her handlers forced her to drink blood to show the change. Some still weren't satisfied, so they pressed a cross against her forehead."  
  
Instinctively, everyone glanced at Lark's face. Her forehead was smooth now, human and unlined as she slept again. It was also unmarred by any burns in the distinctive outline of a cross. That didn't mean anything of course. Three weeks was more than sufficient time for preternatural flesh to heal such minor wounds.  
  
"Let me guess," Buffy ventured. "The cross didn't burn her."  
  
"Not the slightest." Wesley replied. "But she shrank away from it."  
  
"What about other traditional weapons?" Giles queried. "Holy water."  
  
"She could bathe in it." Angel said dryly. "If you could force her into the tub once she knew what was in there."  
  
"Hey, what about garlic?" Xander asked.  
  
Buffy shook her head. "I keep telling you, Xan, garlic's just a repellant. It's kinda like citronella for mosquitoes. Vampires don't like it in large amounts, but it can't really harm them. And some actually like it in small amounts."  
  
Dawn laughed. "That's why Spike can eat buffalo wings and pizza. And Willow's lasagna. "  
  
At the mention of the blond vampire, Angel stiffened. Almost involuntarily, he stared a Buffy. She was grinning as she and her sister took turns naming various garlic-laden foods that Spike enjoyed. Taquitos. Kung Pao Chicken. Baby Back Ribs. Shrimp Scampi. Bubbe Rosenberg's brisket recipe. Potstickers. Tandoori Chicken. Gumbo made by someone named Rafe. But not Raven's stirfry, Dawn giggled. No, Buffy agreed, Spike didn't enjoy that. But, she added, he really liked Basilah Satoof's meze platter. Especially the kibbe nayyeh. That last comment made Dawn laugh so hard she started coughing.  
  
It was clear to Angel that they had shared many meals with his youngest Childe. A bond that he didn't have with Buffy. He hated that it felt like another loss.  
  
"If you two are done..." To his dismay, Angel's tone managed to sound both Watcherish and like a jealous ex-lover.   
  
The Summers fell silent. "Sorry," said Buffy after a few seconds.   
  
Angel felt like he should be the one apologizing, but the chance passed as Wesley launched into a description of what they knew about Lark's damphyr nature.  
  
No, Allium Sativum didn't seem to bother her. She didn't seem exceptionally fond of garlic, but she hadn't complained about eating food flavored with it.  
  
She had a reflection.  
  
She can enter churches and other holy spaces without physical discomfort. Indeed, being in such places seemed to reduced her emotional unease. Holy water and other consecrated objects did not harm her.  
  
She can enter private residences without invitation.  
  
She both loathes and craves blood. It's the only thing that makes her reveal her demon. Well, the only thing thus far.  
  
She can stand the light of the sun.  
  
Wesley's voice sounded strange as he made the last comment. He started to say something else, but then closed his mouth and stared at Lark. Buffy followed his gaze.   
  
"She has freckles." The Slayer said wonderingly. There was a dusting of them across the damphyr's nose and cheekbones.  
  
"Until last week, Lark didn't mind sunlight." Angel explained.  
  
"We sat in the park everyday," Wesley added softly. "She said the light was better there than in the Hyperion's courtyard."  
  
"Huh?" Xander said.  
  
Giles took off his glasses. "What made her reaction to sunlight change?"  
  
Again, Angel and Wesley exchanged a look. To Buffy, it seemed as if the two were weighing the price of some cataclysmic piece of information. It made her even more anxious about their arrival in town. "Angel," she said warningly. "You brought this damphyr to Sunnydale. Into my home," she emphasized. "I have a right to know whatever you and Wesley are hiding."  
  
The vampire nodded in assent. "You're right, you should know everything." He paused. "The problem is that we don't know everything either."  
  
Buffy started to ask for an explanation, but Willow spoke first. "Please, start from the beginning again. We won't interrupt." She smiled. "No more travelogues or discussions of Spike's diet."  
  
The other Scoobies protested, but Giles seconded the idea and all could see the wisdom in it. Angel and Wesley had been sidetracked numerous times. The result was that the Sunnydale residents were more confused than ever about exactly what a damphyr was and how Spike was involved. One by one, they all promised to hold their tongues. Even Anya, who gave her word the most grudgingly.   
  
After Buffy checked to make sure that Dawn didn't have her fingers crossed, she turned to the visitors from L.A. "Go ahead."  
  
***  
Continued in Ch. 3 


	3. Chapter 3: Caveat Emptor

The Devil's Workshop  
By iyaorisha  
  
Timing: AU S7 BtVS and AU S4 AtS  
  
Pairings: Buffy/Spike, Angel/Cordy, Xander/Anya, Willow/other and Wesley/other.  
  
Summary: Buffy and Spike's fragile new relationship is tested when Angel returns to Sunnydale, bringing with him a mysterious young woman from Spike's dark past. (Revised, with chapter titles!)  
  
(This fic is part one of a yet-untitled series in progress. It can be read on its own or after my "Unmoved" series -four linked fics that chronicle my take on reensouled Spike's return to Sunnydale)  
  
Rating/Warnings: R for violence, language, M/F sexual situations, and self-mutiliation.  
  
Spoilers: None if you've seen S6 of BtVS and up through "Deep Down" in Ats S4. Spoilers for my "Unmoved" fanfic series. References to FFL, the trade novels "Pretty Maids All in a Row" and "Little Things", and my fanfic "Relating to a Psychopath.  
  
Disclaimer: None of the BtVS or AtS characters or the world they inhabit belong to me. They belong to Joss and I promise to put them back when I'm done playing with them.   
  
Author's Note: Reading (and for me, writing) Buffyverse fanfiction is a great form of escapism. Unfortunately, "cutting" or self-mutilation is a very real and terribly serious disorder that affects as many as one out of every 200 adolescent girls in the U.S. If you or someone that you know practices "cutting", please seek help from your local medical/mental health expert.  
  
Feedback: My first BtVs/AtS crossover fanfic! Brutal honesty is best (I enjoy floggings, I really do), but warm fuzzies are accepted as well. You can post a review here or email me at fanfic_by_iyaorisha@yahoo.com  
***  
Chapter 3: Caveat Emptor  
  
Three weeks earlier...  
  
Charles Gunn was getting angry by the minute. The young man wasn't sure what the hell a damphyr was. But he watched it drink blood. And the name rhymed with vampire. So he figured that it fit in that category of demon that -Angel withstanding-he'd be all too pleased to wipe from the face of the earth.   
  
Nonetheless, he had been tense ever since bidding began. The scene was just too close to an episode in his family's oral history.   
  
Gunn's father used to tell him about his great-great-great grandmother Susanna being sold away from her mother and baby sister. She was no more than eleven or twelve when she stood on the auction block on an early spring morning in North Carolina. But that didn't stop the auctioneer from stripping her to the waist before a crowd of tobacco farmers. Ostensibly, her upper body was exposed to show that she didn't bear any whip marks -a sign that she was a docile slave. But the crackers used the opportunity to ogle Susanna's budding breasts. They hooted crude remarks as her nipples pebbled from the cool air.  
  
Naturally, Gunn never met Mama Susanna. She died in 1928; before his own grandfather was even born. But his father's storytelling made her come alive. A frightened and humiliated girl at the mercy of a crowd of lecherous men, knowing that she'd have to go home with one of them. Looking around the room, Gunn recognized the expression on the faces of demon, vampire, and human alike. They wanted this damphyr. And not just as a curiosity to add to whatever menagerie of slaves they maintained. It was hard to find a fouler aspiration than that to own another person; but this was a still filthier desire.  
  
He was damned if he'd let them have her.  
  
As Gunn's hand tightened on his weapon, Wes was making his own preparations for the fight to rescue the young woman. He had long knives strapped to each arm and a Browning 9mm in a shoulder holster, but the weapon he readied was his mind.   
  
The Kailiff demons handling the young woman were the biggest worry. They were not only strong, but fiercely loyal to their boss, Anselmo Molinero Sanz. Wes had seen them fight off thieves before. Heavily armed, with their heads bristling with spines, the dark-red skinned demons were a formidable adversary.  
  
Unfortunately, they were not the only potential foe. The auctions at the ranch always drew a large and motley assemblage of collectors. Many were human men of staggering wealth who were amused by dabbling in the occult. They invariably came with bodyguards. If a battle broke out, the hired muscle might not wait to see who was under attack.  
  
The other attendees were mostly demons of various breeds. Some were physically powerful and aggressive enough to enter the fray on general principles. Others might become involved simply in order to curry favor with Molinero.   
  
Then, there were the human innocents. Some eight or nine serious scholars and occultists who, like himself, came to the ranch hoping to find some rarity. A scroll long believed to be lost. The very amulet needed to complete a spell. They were soft from the sedentary lifestyle that was a natural result of their work. Few, if any, would be armed; instead, naively trusting that Kailiff security guards would protect them from any assailants in the crowd. When the fighting broke out, they would become excellent human shields.  
  
Wes gritted his teeth. They were outnumbered. And the potential for collateral damage was high.  
  
A few feet away, Angel was making the same risk assessment. Like Gunn and Wesley, he felt a strong compulsion to rescue the damphyr. His own flesh crawled when the cross was pressed against her forehead. It might not have hurt her, but she was clearly afraid that it might.   
  
Something told Angel that this wasn't her first time on the auction block. Perhaps the way that she wearily obeyed her handlers' orders. Sipping from a vial of holy water to show that it held no danger for her. Turning around at a bidder's request. She did it all without casting a glance at the crowd. She didn't care about their reaction.  
  
How long had the damphyr lived this nightmarish existence? Angel shook his head almost imperceptibly. He couldn't think about that. It would make it even harder to do what needed to be done.  
  
Stand back and watch as she was sold.  
  
Because there was no way the three of them could rescue her right now. The ranch was too heavily guarded. The best chance to liberate her would come if she were sold. The buyer would take her away from the ranch and Molinero's Kailiff demon guards. Whoever bought her would be very wealthy -bidding had just reached three and a quarter million dollars-and therefore, they would have their own security team. But not as many men as Molinero. With luck, the bodyguards might even be human.  
  
Those were odds he could take.  
  
Gunn and Wesley both took a step forward.  
  
"No," Angel hissed.  
  
The two men were both battle hungry, but they stopped. It was a good thing. For a moment, the vampire was caught up in the eagerness to fight that shone in their eyes. His demon quickened inside him, clamoring to be set free -Angelus didn't care about rescuing the damphyr, but he was rearing for a good fight.   
  
Angel steeled himself against the urge to launch a foolhardy attack. Instead, he motioned to his companions to follow him into a small curtained alcove just outside the great room where the auction was being conducted. Wes and Gunn did so reluctantly, casting worried eyes back to the spot-lit dais. Once they were all inside, Angel drew the velvet curtains closed so that they were concealed from any passersby. Then, he revealed his plan.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, they emerged from the alcove, just in time to hear the auctioneer cry "Sold!" Many in the crowd burst into applause as a large man with badly jaundiced eyes lurched to his feet and approached the dais. He was shocked and angered when a cordon of Kailiff guards closed ranks, cutting him off from the damphyr he had just purchased.   
  
Molinero himself stepped out the shadows to appease the buyer, explaining in diplomatic tones that the damphyr would be bathed and properly dressed while the financial arrangements were made. All of this was delivered in cultured tones so low that even with preternatural hearing, Angel had to strain to catch the words.   
  
In contrast, the buyer's voice was booming and coarse. "So long as I can leave with her within the hour. I don't want to have to spend the night in Matamoros."  
  
Of course not, Molinero said soothingly. Then, he invited the crude American to his office where the wire transfer would be conducted.  
  
Angel conveyed all this quickly to Gunn and Wesley. Then the three split up. Each had a separate mission to complete before the buyer left the ranch with the damphyr.  
  
***  
  
Gunn left the ranch house. He made sure to look dejected when he passed the two Kailiff guards at the main entrance. They assumed he was a disappointed bidder leaving early and let him by with a second glance.   
  
He walked slowly to the wide swath of tarmac that scarred the desert just inside the ranch's front gate. An easy four dozen vehicles were parked there while the owners attended the auction. A handful of the vehicles would not have looked out of place on the parking lot of your neighborhood middle school. They seemed so white bread that would be easy to assume that they all belonged to the scholars and occultists. However, Wesley's SUV visually fit into this I'm-a regular-Joe category and Gunn knew that it had been modified with secret compartments to carry weapons and other supplies. It was a reminder that appearances were usually deceiving.  
  
In addition to the regular-looking cars, there were about twenty battered pick-up trucks, SUVs, and humvees. Gunn noted that a few of these seemed occupied. Gangsta rap blared in one. Country music leaked from another. Cigarette smoke drifted up from at least two vehicles. And, he spotted a bar of booted feet sticking out the windows of a rust-speckled Dodge Ram.  
  
About a third of the vehicles were very high-end luxury cars. They were guarded, of course. But not well. Gunn could smell marijuana smoke in the air -bodyguards taking advantage of a long break before the auction ended and their bosses wanted to go home.  
  
His assessment complete, Gunn went to Angel's convertible and retrieved a duffle bag from the trunk. He took a small tool from it and returned the bag. Then, he went to work.  
  
With the exception of Wesley's SUV, every vehicle that was clearly unoccupied and unguarded got the same treatment. All four tires were slashed multiple times. The owners wouldn't be going anywhere tonight unless there was a NTB store somewhere on Molinero's property. Gunn chuckled a bit at the thought. The ranch was so large it was a possibility.   
  
Once the majority of the vehicles were disabled, Gunn's mood turned grim. Since Wes had traveled to the ranch on his own, the team had two vehicles. Angel's convertible was fine for transportation to jobs in L.A. and its suburbs, but it would unsuitable for the mission ahead. Wes' truck was the best bet.  
  
So, Gunn would have to drive Angel's car to Matamoros and wait for Wes and Angel to arrive with the damphyr. He didn't like that part of the plan. It sucked to be left out of the fighting, which was the fun part, after all. A year ago, he wouldn't have agreed. But then, a year ago he wasn't sure Wes could fill his spot in a battle. He grinned a little. English was full of surprises these days. It was good to have a man like that at your back. It was good to work with him again, even if most of the bad blood between Wes and Angel remained.  
  
He cast a last glance back at the ranch house, then turned the key. The engine purred sweetly to life. Driving the convertible was a mighty small consolation for having to leave, but Gunn would take it.  
  
***  
  
Meanwhile, inside the ranch house, Wes spotted a human dressed in a suit cut from a particularly appalling shade of purple silk. The man was short and flabby with badly done hair plugs. Eight large diamond rings graced his pudgy hands. He was obviously one of the nouveau riche who collected occulterie the way that other suddenly wealthy people amassed cars or mansions.  
  
The man didn't notice Wesley's approach. He was too busy fondling the girl in his lap. Leggy, with impossibly blond hair given her dark brows, the young woman squealed with feigned pleasure as the man's plump hands wandered over her assets. She gave a squawk of a different sort when she looked up to see Wes standing over them.  
  
"Nick! Nick!" The bottle-blond cried urgently. She batted at her companion a bit until the man finally paid attention. "Er, yeah?" he peered at Wes, eyes noticeably unfocused. "Whadyuh want?"   
  
Wes gave him a broad, friendly smile and replied in a tone to match. "I was wondering if you know anything about the gentleman who purchased the damphyr."  
  
"Damn fire. What fire?" The man looked about him in confusion. The bimbo rolled her eyes and whispered in his ear. "Oh...yeah, the vampire chick." Nick shook his head. "I wasn't interested in her. Who wants a dead girl in your bed when you can gave a live one like my Shellie here." He slapped Shellie on the rump and she squealed. They both forgot about Wesley.  
  
Wes tried again. "You were sitting next to the gentleman. Do you happen to catch his name?"  
  
Nick turned around in annoyance and stared at the man questioning him. Tall, lean, dressed in faded jeans, t-shirt and a leather jacket, the man could have been one of the geeks who came to buy scrolls. Or, he might be one of those old money types who like to dress like slubs. The part of Nick's mind that handled classifying people into two groups: money and no money decided that the British accent was the key clue. This guy was probably English nobility, maybe even a member of the royal family -he could never keep all those dukes and princes straight. It didn't matter, if the guy had money, he had connections. And Nick needed connections.  
  
Nick put on his best smile and held out a hand to the English guy. That loosened his grip on his girlfriend and she slipped a bit since both his lap and her butt were silk-covered. "Listen, Shellie, could ya grab a couple drinks. A Southern Screw for me and for our friend here..." he turned to the stranger, "I didn't catch yer name."   
  
Wes smiled "Nigel Greene-Humphries." He shook Nick's oily hand.  
  
Nick was a little disappointed that Nigel didn't add a "Lord" or "Earl" to his name, but maybe the guy was traveling incog-whatever. "What do you wanna drink, Nigel? I bet Molinero's got some warm beer somewhere around here."  
  
Wes reminded himself that he had to play along if he was going to pump this guy for information. Shellie might be gone for a while if she was searching for warm beer. "Why yes," he replied, broadening his accent, "That would be veddy nice, indeed."  
  
Shellie strutted away. Nick watched her rear end until it disappeared into the crowd. Then he turned back to Nigel. "So, you're wondering about the guy who bought the vampire."  
  
Wes didn't bother to correct Nick. He just nodded.  
  
Nick made a noise of disgust. "That's Jack Neelson. From Galveston. Paid four million for that dead girl. She's a looker, but you couldn't pay me four million to sleep with her. And what are you gonna do with a vampire in Texas. You can't exactly show her off poolside at the country club."  
  
"Nigel" made sure to laugh along with Nick. The man visibly relaxed. Wes didn't even have to ask the next question.  
  
"'Sides, Neelson only bought her to piss off the Austrians." Nick jerked a thumb toward a pair of scowling men who sat in the front row. "Father 'n' son. They were havin' their own private biddin' war when Neelson barged in. Drove the bids up to they had to drop out."  
  
Wes doubted that. Neelson had been too eager to claim the damphyr. The Texan might have gotten coincidental pleasure from shafting the Austrians, but he wanted the girl for other reasons. He smiled. "How long has this feud with the Austrians gone on?"  
  
"I dunno," Nick shrugged. "This is my first time at Molinero's." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "I came looking for some lufi powder. It's better than Viagra, y'know. Ya can't buy it in the States or Canada, but these Latin countries always have it. Buddy of mine said Molinero had a whole horn once. It sold for twice that vampire chick." Nick paused. "So Shellie 'n' me are on our way to Vegas to get hitched. I thought why not drive down here. He ain't got it, no big. I still got a three week supply of those beautiful blue pills for the honeymoon," he laughed.   
  
Wes realized that he wasn't going to get anymore information from Nick. He decided to make his escape before Shellie came back with a warm bottle of Dos Equis. "Well, Nick it was a pleasure meeting you and your future bride, but I see an old friend and it looks like he's just about to leave. My congratulations on your nuptials."  
  
Before Nick could protest, "Nigel" slipped away.   
  
***  
  
Angel didn't speak Kailiff. The best he could make out from the two guards' snarling conversation was a sense of urgency. Molinero had promised the buyer that the damphyr would be ready to travel as soon as the wire transfer was complete. The Kailiff had rushed the girl out of the great room and down a side corridor. Angel waited a few moments, then followed them.  
  
Peering out of one of the many alcoves that dotted the ranch house, he watched the demons hand the damphyr over to a pair of female human servants. The women wordlessly escorted the girl into a room and closed the door. To Angel's surprise, the guards glanced at each other and, with the air of kids playing hooky, wandered off. Probably sneaking off for a coffee break or whatever form of refreshment Kailiff liked. They wouldn't be gone long since Molinero and the buyer would be expecting the damphyr soon.  
  
Angel moved quickly to the door. Carefully opening it a crack, he peered into the small room. It was fairly dark and appeared empty. However, there was the unmistakable gurgle of running water. The sound and a faint rectangle of light across the room suggested the damphyr was being bathed in an adjoining bathroom.  
  
He slipped into the room, quietly closing the door behind him. His preternatural eyes did not need time to adjust to the darkness as he scanned the bedroom. It was sparsely furnished with a narrow cot and an armoire, a stark contrast to the rest of the ranch house. Molinero clearly hadn't bothered to spend any money on the damphyr's comfort. Angel suspected that the girl's brief stay at the ranch had been spent in restraints on a narrow cot against the western wall. If so, then, her days had passed staring at the blank stucco walls or out the room's single window. He noted with interest that the window's heavy shutters were fastened open and wondered if the damphyr was as impervious to sunlight as she was to crosses or holy water.  
  
There was a shuffling sound nearby. Angel flattened himself against wall just as the bathroom door opened. A short, dark-skinned woman crossed the bedroom to the armoire. Chattering in her indigenous language in a manner that suggested she was scolding her co-worker, she removed a white cotton bathrobe and pair of slippers. Then she turned around and came face to face with Angel!  
  
To her credit, the woman didn't scream. Without taking her eyes from him, she took a step toward the door. His own movement was a blur as he blocked her way. His hand slid across her mouth before she could summon the breath to call for help. Her little rope sandals drummed against Angel's shins as he lifted her so that he could whisper in her ear.  
  
It had been years since he'd spoken Nahuatl, the woman's native language. "You don't want to scream." Angel said soothingly. "There is nothing to be afraid of. I don't mean you any harm."  
  
When the woman relaxed into the hypnotic state of thrall, Angel set her down. Unexpectedly, she whirled and spat at him. "Save your tricks, demon!" she sneered. "I am immune. Do you think Molinero is a fool to put vulnerable women in charge of his tlahuelpuchi."  
  
Angel didn't know the last word she said, but he got the gist of it. It made sense. He knew that Molinero's security arrangements weren't limited to the guards. There were electronic gates at the ranch's entrance and at least four surveillance cameras in the great room where the auction was held. Angel should have expected the rancher to use magickal means to protect the damphyr.  
  
He sighed and drew back his arm to knock the woman out. She saw the movement and didn't flinch. Rather, she seemed to be coolly appraising him. "You have a teyolia, demon."  
  
As Angel struggled with the Nahuatl word, the woman grew exasperated. She switched to Spanish. "Usted tiene un alma." ("You have a soul.")  
  
"Sí."  
  
She digested this information. "¿Cómo?" (How?)  
  
Before he could answer, there was a call from the bathroom. The other servant impatient. The woman rolled her eyes and responded in the same chiding tone as before. Then she repeated her question.  
  
Angel shrugged. "¿Realmente importa?" ("Does it really matter?")  
  
She folded her arms across her ample bosom. "Pero, por supuesto." (But, of course.)  
  
"Me maldijeron. Un gitano me dio un alma para castigarme." "I was cursed. A gypsy gave me a soul to punish me."  
  
The other servant called again, more strident now. The woman gave Angel another appraising stare. "Espera." ("Wait.") She ordered. Then, she carried the robe and slippers into the other room. There was much conversing in Nahuatl before she returned.  
  
To Angel's surprise, she grinned, unselfconsciously revealing tobacco stained teeth. "Le pensé era una víctima de la tlahuelpuchi." ("I thought you were a victim of the tlahuelpuchi."  
  
¿Tlahuelpuchi?" he shook his head. "¿No sé cuáles es eso?" ("I don't know what that is?")  
  
The woman regarded him with contempt. "Un demonio tal como usted. Uno que parece humano, pero oculta a monstruo. Uno que bebe sangre y teme el sol. La única diferencia es que sus golpes del corazón aún." ("A demon like yourself. One that looks human, but hides a monster. One that drinks blood and fears the sun. The only difference is that her heart still beats."   
  
Angel closed his eyes. Yes, he could sense the damphyr's heartbeat now, a third pulsing nearby. That and another vague, yet disturbingly familiar sensation. It puzzled him so that he almost missed the woman's next question.   
  
"¿Qué usted desea con ella?" ("What do you want with her?")  
  
No use lying, Angel thought. "Deseo rescatarla." ("I want to save her.")  
  
"Imposible. La, como usted, maldicen." ("Impossible. She, like you, is damned,") the woman said grimly. The, before Angel could protest, she continued. "Molinero nunca permitirá que usted la tome. Sus demonios le destruirán antes de que usted fije el pie del rancho." ("Molinero will never allow you to take her. His demons will destroy you before you set foot off the ranch.")  
  
Then she leaned forward and winked. "Ése es porqué usted debe esperar hasta que le toman del rancho. La política de Molinero es que él no es responsable de pérdidas que un comprador está una vez fuera de sus puertas." ("That is why you must wait until she is taken from the ranch. Molinero's policy is that he is not responsible for losses once a buyer is outside his gates.")  
  
There was a knock at the bedroom door.   
  
Angel moved to the wall behind the door. The woman opened it and spoke to the Kailiff guard in his own tongue. The demon grunted angrily, but went away. The woman closed the door and approached Angel quickly. "El gringo está impaciente por irse. Debo conseguir la tlahuelpuchi lista. Los demonios volverán para ella en cinco minutos y la llevarán a la entrada lateral. Usted debe ahora ir si usted espera ver qué dirección les dirigen." ("The American is anxious to leave. I must get the tlahuelpuchi ready. The demons will return for her in five minutes and take her to the side entrance. You must go now if you hope to see what direction they are headed.") She turned back toward the bathroom.  
  
"¿Por qué usted me está ayudando?" ("Why are you helping me?") Angel asked quietly.  
  
The woman turned "Usted habría podido matarme cuando usted me cogió." (You could have killed me when you caught me.")  
  
When she reached the bathroom door, she turned once more and there was something very sad in her eyes. "Mi gente ha muerto en las quijadas de su clase para los millares de años Desde venir trabajar en este rancho, he aprendido que hay monstruos peores. Molinero es uno." ("My people have died in the jaws of your kind for thousands of years. Since coming to work at this ranch, I have learned that there are worse monsters. Molinero is one.")   
  
Angel nodded.  
  
Then the woman brightened. "No es la avería de la tlahuelpuchi que ella es malvada. Eso es justo la manera de tales demonios. Usted puede conseguir quizá a su gitano maldecirla." ("It isn't the tlahuelpuchi's fault that she is evil. That is just the way of such demons. Maybe you can get your gypsy to curse her.")   
  
He laughed.  
  
And she was gone.  
  
***  
Two hours later...  
  
The sandy soil was seeping into Angel's clothing. It rasped annoyingly against his preternatural skin and made him shift position. The movement sent a trickle of sand and small pebbles skittering down the slope. The sound was horrifically loud in the desert night.   
  
Wesley glared at Angel. It had been the vampire's idea to hide in the soft, sandy soil of the arroyo beside the road to Matamoros. Wesley would have preferred to launch the attack on Neelson's caravan a few miles back where an outcropping of rock provided a natural shelter. Now there was no time to move. They could see the lights of the lead vehicle, an ex-military modified humvee.  
  
As the hummer roared by, Wes fired a series of expert shots that took out the tires. As he hoped, the driver panicked and sent the vehicle skidding across the road. The other cars didn't have room to stop. First one, then the other slammed into the hummer.   
  
For a moment, no one moved in the pile of twisted metal. Then, the door to the humvee opened and a guard staggered out. He raised his Uzi and scanned the direction from which the shots were fired. Nothing. He turned slowly to the opposite direction, right into the stock of Wesley's rifle.  
  
Before the guard had crumpled to the ground, Wes moved on. Together, he and Angel neutralized each guard that managed to extricate himself from the wrecked vehicles. A total of seven fell in less than two minutes. When no one else moved, Angel headed to Neelson's BMW.   
  
The millionaire's car had bulletproof glass, but was otherwise unarmored. It had taken a lot of damage in the crash. Angel had to rip the left passenger door off to get it open. An eighth guard fell halfway out, unconscious.  
  
There was a low moan. When they peered in, Angel and Wes saw Neelson huddled against the right side passenger door. The lower half of the Texan's face was crimson with his own blood. It looked awful, but Angel suspected that it was merely a bad nosebleed. The man seemed otherwise unharmed.  
  
"Don't kill me!" Neelson begged. "I can pay you whatever you want. Just don't kill me."  
  
Wes reached in and dragged the man out. They threw him across the trunk of the BMW. "Where's the damphyr?" Wes barked.  
  
The Texan curled his lip in disgust. "You came after me for that freak."  
  
Neither Wes or Angel bothered to respond. Neelson shook his head and pointed at the Humvee. "It's in there."  
  
When they turned their heads to look, the man shifted. Wes was still staring at the hummer, but Angel reacted to the sudden movement. He grabbed Neelson's arm, but not in time to stop the shot. Redirected, the bullet struck Wesley's upper arm rather than his temple.  
  
Angel wrenched the pistol from Neelson and used it to knock the Texan out. Then, he helped Wes to his feet. The tall Englishman was a little pale, but did no more than wince as Angel examined his bicep. Fortunately, Neelson had only inflicted a minor flesh wound. Wes bore an inch-long furrow that would bleed a lot and leave a nasty scar, but hardly life threatening. Bound with strips from his t-shirt, the ex-Watcher barely noticed the injury as he and Angel walked to the humvee.  
  
A few of the guards stirred as they passed them, but most fell back into unconsciousness with a replaced kick or two. Nonetheless, Angel and Wes gathered up their weapons. There would be no more stealthy attacks. Neelson had his chance and he blew it.  
  
Angel opened the back door of the hummer.   
  
This time, there were no surprises. Only the damphyr lying on the back seat, handcuffed and shackled. At some point during the fighting, her gag has gotten slipped halfway off, and was twisted around her neck. Her mouth was free, but unlike Neelson, she didn't plead. Just stared at them with large, fearful grey eyes.  
  
"You're safe now," Wes breathed. He leaned forward to remove her restraints. The gag, he decided, should come off first in case it was choking her. The movement brought Wesley's wounded arm close to the damphyr's face. She snarled when she smelled his blood. It was eerie seeing those all to human eyes staring out of a vampire's misshapen visage. Despite himself, Wes dropped the gag and took a step back.  
  
"You'd better let me handle her." Angel said dourly.   
  
Wes moved aside as Angel reached in. He watched the damphyr's reaction as Angel snapped the steel shackles on her ankles. She had restored her human mask, but stared in a frankly hungry way at Wes over Angel's shoulder as the vampire worked on her bonds.  
  
Once free, she sat up. Her eyes never left Wesley's face. "I can never be safe. And now, you won't be either."  
  
***  
Continued in Chapter 4. 


	4. Chapter 4: Deliverance

The Devil's Workshop  
By iyaorisha  
  
Timing: AU S7 BtVS and AU S4 AtS  
  
Pairings: Buffy/Spike, Angel/Cordy, Xander/Anya, Willow/other and Wesley/other.  
  
Summary: Buffy and Spike's fragile new relationship is tested when Angel returns to Sunnydale, bringing with him a mysterious young woman from Spike's dark past. (Revised, with chapter titles!)  
  
(This fic is part one of a yet-untitled series in progress. It can be read on its own or after my "Unmoved" series -four linked fics that chronicle my take on reensouled Spike's return to Sunnydale)  
  
Rating/Warnings: R for violence, language, M/F sexual situations, and self-mutiliation.  
  
Spoilers: None if you've seen S6 of BtVS and up through "Deep Down" in Ats S4. Spoilers for my "Unmoved" fanfic series. References to FFL, the trade novels "Pretty Maids All in a Row" and "Little Things", and my fanfic "Relating to a Psychopath.  
  
Disclaimer: None of the BtVS or AtS characters or the world they inhabit belong to me. They belong to Joss and I promise to put them back when I'm done playing with them.   
  
Author's Note: Reading (and for me, writing) Buffyverse fanfiction is a great form of escapism. Unfortunately, "cutting" or self-mutilation is a very real and terribly serious disorder that affects as many as one out of every 200 adolescent girls in the U.S. If you or someone that you know practices "cutting", please seek help from your local medical/mental health expert.  
  
Feedback: My first BtVs/AtS crossover fanfic! Brutal honesty is best (I enjoy floggings, I really do), but warm fuzzies are accepted as well. You can post a review here or email me at fanfic_by_iyaorisha@yahoo.com  
  
***  
  
Chapter 4: Deliverance  
  
The desert at night.   
  
There were few trees to screen the harsh moonlight that bleached out color and pared away all features into blocky shapes and rough textures. Sketched out in light and shadow like a black&white photograph, the landscape was both bleakly beautiful and utterly uninviting. To the casual observer, the scenery passing by the SUV's windows was cold, lifeless.   
  
Wesley Wyndham-Price was not a casual observer.  
  
He sensed the movement before it was fully recognizable --an owl swooping down on some small creature. He turned his head to watch it strike.  
  
The bird was young and still a bit ungainly in flight. At the last minute, the owlet braked its descent too sharply. Razor talons ghosted over fear-stiffened fur, then closed on air. There was a hoot of outrage at the miss and the prey's paralysis broke at last. Its frantic scurrying across the sand sent up tiny puffs of dust like alien mushrooms.   
  
The scene was soon lost to distance, but Wes did not turn from the window. He always hated sitting in the passenger seat. It was especially galling now because he was riding in his own vehicle. Now that the pain in his arm had settled into a low throb, he was perfectly capable of driving. However, Angel had taken the keys, insisting that he try to sleep.  
  
It was impossible, of course. Still too much adrenaline in his system to relax. So, Wes stared out the window. His posture gave the impression that his gaze never left the passing landscape. In reality, he was spending more time staring at the window than out of it. The darkness outside made the tinted glass cast a shadowy image of the girl in the backseat. He assumed that the reflection was the first of many surprises the damphyr held. The temptation to surreptitiously study her was too strong to resist.  
  
He hadn't gotten a good look at the girl since Molinero's ranch. She had been so skittish as Angel freed her from the wreckage of Neelson's humvee, that the vampire had advised Wes to steer clear. Grudgingly, he sat in the SUV while Angel tried to convince the damphyr to come with him. Even without the smell of fresh blood to make her half-wild, it had taken quite a bit of cajoling to get her into their vehicle. Now, belted into the backseat, she didn't even resemble the young woman who'd stood on a spot lit dais hours earlier  
  
The damphyr's hair had been cut badly in the short time between the auction and her rescue. Before, her dark curls had been a tangled waist-length mass. Now, they were chopped to skim her shoulder at the back and sides. An attempt had been made at bangs, but the result was simply an uneven row of short spirals. The entire effect was that of a home perm gone terribly wrong. Wes had the impression that she had been the victim of some well-meaning person used to trimming the bone-straight locks of the native population. Yes, it was a close approximation of the modified Dutch boy cut worn by most of the Indians in this area. Only a colorful woven headband was missing to complete the look  
  
Wes suspected that, even well done, the haircut wouldn't have suited the damphyr. The style squared her jaw, adding to the androgynous effect of her shapeless tunic and trousers. The garments were clean, but very badly frayed. And too small. The tattered hem of the pants skimmed her shins. The tunic revealed an inch of flat belly and her wrists poked far from the raggedy cuffs.   
  
He estimated the girl was about 5'5". Average height for an American woman, but almost a half foot taller than most of the Tamaupilans. She had been dwarfed by the Kailiff guards, but must have looked like a gangly giantess beside her human handlers.  
  
A more classically beautiful young woman might have shone through the butchered hair and baggy apparel. The damphyr didn't. She seemed ordinary, almost drab. She looked like a slave.  
  
She reminded him of Fred when he first saw her in Pylea.   
  
Later, he would be ashamed of the thought. But, right then, speeding along the road to Maramoros, he knew only that it cracked something inside him. And, he hurt.  
  
Oh, God, he hurt.  
  
The pain was so fresh that it all might as well have happened a fortnight ago. In his whole life, nothing -not his father's insults, not even Fred falling for Gunn- had hurt as much as the look on Fred's face that night in the hospital. He hadn't thought it possible for someone to feel pity and loathing at the same time. But, the woman he loved had looked at him like he was a broken-winged insect as she revealed that the prophecies were false and told him to stay away.   
  
As a wave of heartache swept over him, Wesley closed his eyes and slumped in his seat. The movement accidentally jolted his right arm against the door handle. There was a flare of pain, followed by a sudden sensation of wetness that told him he'd reopened the wound. It didn't matter, at that moment he welcomed the physical distraction from his emotional torment. As both pains faded, he opened his eyes into wide grey ones. Or more accurately, the damphyr's reflection.   
  
She was leaning forward, staring at him with great interest. He watched her bite her lower lip apprehensively. It was as if she sensed his suffering. He blinked, chiding himself. Probably she just caught of whiff of the new flow of blood and was wondering if she could get at him. Whatever the emotion animating her face, it restored some of the allure she held during the opening minutes of the auction.  
  
She caught him staring back at her and the blank expression reappeared. For some reason he wasn't content to let her lapse back into solitude. "What shall we call you?"  
  
The girl didn't look up as she answered. "Molinero and his witches called me tlahuelpuchi." She pronounced the Nahuatl term adeptly. At his raised eyebrow, she volunteered, "That's a kind of daywalking vampire in Mexico. Others use the term damphyr. Different languages, same deal."  
  
Angel shook his head. "He means what's your name."  
  
She stared at him blankly.  
  
Wes decided to try a different tack. "I'm Wesley Wyndham-Price. This is Angel.   
  
"Angel what?"  
  
The corners of Wesley's mouth jerked upward briefly. The vampire ignored him. "It's just Angel. I haven't had a last name in a long, long time."  
  
She accepted this without comment.  
  
The ex-Watcher continued. "And you are..."  
  
The damphyr's eyes dropped. "I don't have a name."  
  
Angel and Wes both turned to stare at her. The vampire's brow was furrowed. "You must have a name."  
  
"Why? You don't have a last name." The young woman folded her arms across her chest defiantly.  
  
Wes couldn't hold back the smile at this point. It was a mistake.  
  
Her grey eyes turned on him. "Why are you grinning? You've got enough names for two people."   
  
Angel didn't just smile, he laughed. It earned him two unfriendly stares. He turned around and stared at the road.   
  
Wes sighed. "I suppose we could give you a name. Angel, what do you think of Aglaia. After one of the Graces of ancient Greek mythology."  
  
The vampire kept a straight face. "Actually she looks more like a Bertilda to me."  
  
"Chrysanthemi"  
  
Wesley thought for a minute. "Derwinna."  
  
"Nah," Angel shot her a quick glance. "How about Enigma?"   
  
"Enigma isn't a name!" The damphyr protested.  
  
Wes agreed, then added. "But it does describe you rather well. Now where were we?"  
  
"The Fs." Angel replied. " 'Fuensanta' has a noble ring to it. It means 'holy fountain'."  
  
The girl shuddered.  
  
"Grisandole?" Wes offered. "It's a medieval English name meaning a princess who dresses like a warrior."  
  
She glared.  
  
"Don't worry, we'll find a proper one eventually." Wes assured her. He gave her a roguish grin, making it obvious that they were prepared to go through the entire alphabet.  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Enough, it's Lark."  
  
"Just Lark?" Angel said teasingly.  
  
"One name's good enough for you," she shot back.  
  
Just up ahead, Angel spotted the exit for Matamoros and concentrated on slowing the SUV's speed, almost missing Lark's next words.  
  
"Sorry, I just haven't had a name in a long, long time."  
  
****  
  
Wes directed Angel through the streets of the border town until they got to El Buho, the little bar where Gunn waited. The young man got out of the convertible and walked over to the SUV, stretching and yawning. Angel rolled down the driver's side window and the two partners exchanged an elaborate handshake. As the vampire gave a brief explanation of the damphyr's rescue, Gunn peered curiously at the young woman. He kept giving her sidelong glances through the window as Angel outline the plan to cross the border and spend the night in Brownsville.  
  
Angel decided to put him out of his misery. "Gunn, this is Lark. Lark, this is Charles Gunn."  
  
They nodded at each other. "Pleased to meet you, Lark." Gunn said politely. Then he waited.  
  
Wesley cleared his throat. Lark looked sheepish. "Pleased to meet you, too Charles."   
  
Gunn laughed. "Just call me Gunn. Only my girlfriend calls me Charles." Out of habit, his eyes flicked at Wes at the mention of Fred. To his surprise, the ex-Watcher didn't seem to notice the reference. He was too busy staring at Lark. So, Gunn thought, English has a thing for the damphyr. Good, maybe he'll leave my woman alone.  
  
***  
The border crossing was uneventful. Given the late hour, few vehicles were headed into the U.S. However, many Americans were crossing the bridges over the Rio Grande on foot. One inebriated man grew resentful at the wait and began walking through. His equally drunk friends called him to come back. When he ignored their pleas, they ran after him. The group's movement sent all but one guard in each lane sprinting across the bridge. The man put up quite a struggle and distracted the remaining border agents.   
  
As a result, both the SUV and the convertible were given perfunctory searches. The female border guard in their lane barely glanced at their identification. Nonetheless, Wesley gave a sigh of relief as they were passed through. As part of the damphyr's purchase, Molinero had provided Neelson with a U.S. passport for Lark which Angel had retrieved from the wreckage of the humvee. The photo on the document was clearly Lark, but her name was given as Laura Jones. He wondered if it was her real name. He turned around to ask her. To his surprise, the young woman had unbuckled herself and was curled up on the backseat fast asleep.   
  
In repose, Lark's expression was neither cold or guarded. Instead, her face had a tomboyish air that made her seem very young and almost wholesome. He watched her wonderingly. Tonight he's seen her in so many different lights: an alluring curiosity available to the highest bidder, the traumatized slave, and a sullen teenager. Now, she looked like Hollywood's idea of the girl next door. Wearing that expression, one could easily imagine Lark playing on the local college's women's football...er soccer team. He did just that, picturing her driving the ball across the field. She'd have her wild mane restrained in a tight ponytail secured with one of those little colored elastic bands. The fantasy worked until he imagined her celebrating her goal by draining a member of the opposing team dry.   
  
For the first time, Wesley allowed himself to think about the dilemma of what to do with the damphyr now that they had rescued her. Lark clearly was not in any psychological state to go off on her own. She had been reluctant to accompany them. Wes suspected that she would have stayed there in the wreckage of the caravan if he and Angel had simply driven away. It wasn't clear if she was fearful of them as strangers or simply worried that Neelson or Molinero would recapture and punish her. Either way, it was a bad sign that she hadn't ventured to ask where they were taking her. Lark might have a name now, but on some level she still thought of herself as someone's possession, something they could do with as they pleased.   
  
It hit him then that the easy part had been the physical rescue. Yes, he'd been shot, but otherwise the three of them and the girl were okay. And they'd pulled the mission off without killing Neelson or his bodyguards.   
  
The damphyr's psychological liberation was another matter. Lark believed that she would never be safe. Until they could prove her wrong, she'd be too vulnerable to go her own way.  
  
Moreover, as long as she was in their custody, there was the problem of managing her behavior. The analytical part of Wesley's mind reminded him that Lark was a monster masquerading as a human young woman. His wounded arm had roused her demon. What would happen when her bloodthirst returned? So far, Lark seemed relatively docile, but she undoubtedly had preternatural strength to some degree. Otherwise the Kailiff guards and restraints would not have been necessary. They had seen that traditional weapons against vampires seemed to have no effect on her. Angel would be fine, but Wesley made a note to warn Gunn not to let his guard down around the girl.  
  
As he gazed at Lark's sleeping face, Wes had the sinking feeling that it might be too late for him to take his own warning to heart.  
  
***  
  
The neon sign said "No Vacancy", but the motel's parking lot was nearly empty. Angel decided they should take a chance. He flashed the headlights to signal Gunn to follow them into the parking lot.   
  
The check-in office was the first bad sign. Poorly lit. Hot as Hades despite the rumbling AC wall unit. There were multiple small holes in the plastic barrier around the night clerk's desk. Their scattered distribution and the surrounding cracks suggested they weren't the type purposely drilled for ventilation.   
  
When they approach the counter, the clerk didn't both to look up. He was a ferret-faced teenager engrossed in a porn flick playing on a 20-inch TV. The picture was riddled with lines. Pirated cable in a motel? Bad sign number two.  
  
Angel rapped on the plastic. The youth resentfully turned from the screen and then gave them a hostile stare. As his watery blue eyes slid over the four strangers, they paused at the sight of the dark-haired girl.   
  
The clerk moved aside so to ensure a better view of the tv screen. The silicone beauty being violated pouted out at them. She wasn't a natural redhead. The youth ran the heel of his hand over his bulging crotch as he watched the damphyr's reaction. To her credit and his disappointment, Lark kept her face emotionless.  
  
"We'd like rooms." Wesley said.  
  
"I got one." The youth said curtly. "They just checked out and it ain't been cleaned yet. Maid's not in till seven. If she lays off the crank tonight." His tone said that was doubtful.  
  
Gunn looked around the office. The maid's crystal meth habit was at least a couple months old. There were faded lottery tickets and desiccated insects mixed in with the dust bunnies at the foot of the counter. "Uh, guys. I think I saw a sign for a Super 8 just up the highway."  
  
The clerk laughed. "It's full. There's a convention in town. Everyone's full 'cept me and like I said I only got the one room."  
  
Angel sighed. "How much?"  
  
"$60 for the night." The clerk licked his thin lips as he stared at the damphyr. "$25 for the hour." He laughed. The sound died in his throat at the expression on Wesley's face. The teen looked suddenly grateful for the plastic barrier, even as flimsy as he knew it to be. "Um, sixty plus tax and we charge extra if there's more than two guests in a double." He consulted a little chart that had been Xeroxed and scotchtaped to the grimy counter. "That'll be seventy-nine fifty."  
  
Angel dug in his back pocket for his wallet. He withdrew a credit card.   
  
"Cash." The youth smirked.  
  
The vampire's fingers tightened on the little plastic rectangle. He suspected that the clerk was going to pocket the money. After all, the room had already been rented out for the night. He wouldn't even have to enter this transaction in the ledger.  
  
Angel didn't have any cash. Gunn's own billfold held a faded twenty and some change, plus his driver's license and a little plastic accordion folder of wallet-sized photos. After turning out his jeans and jacket pockets, the young man was able to come up with a total of about thirty dollars in crumpled bills. He reluctantly handed them over. Wes shook his head. "Keep it Charles."   
  
Gunn didn't refuse. They weren't going to be paid for this job and business back in LA had been slow lately with the boss so distracted. He crammed the money back into his pockets as Wes counted out four crisp new twenty-dollar bills. "Keep the change." The Englishman said sarcastically.  
  
The clerk gave him a sour look, but he was growing bored with needling them by this point. He set the key on the little lazy susan, spun it through the opening wordlessly, and turned back to his porn. The carrot top's raucous cries of feigned pleasure seemed to mock them as they walked out of the office.  
  
On their drive in, Gunn thought that the air was foul, rife with odors from the maquiladoras. It had been sweet compared to that inside the check-in office. Still, even that malodorous place hadn't prepared him for the reek that emanated from their motel room even before Angel turned the key.  
  
Someone had partied hard in room 2E. On the single small night table, there were several half-filled takeout containers. Their contents were unrecognizable, covered in a thick carpeting of gray furze. Draped over the remains of a wooden chair, a slice of pizza was mold free, but rapidly fossilizing. The far wall provided support for a massive pyramid of Coors' cans. A trio of smashed bottles indicated that at some point the revelers had switched from beer to tequila. The double beds were not only unmade, but actually disassembled -mattresses taken off the boxsprings and thrown on the floor where they had been...used. Lark stared at the unmistakable stains.  
  
"Damn." Gunn mumbled. His voice was oddly distorted because he was pinching his nose.  
  
"Sorry," Angel told the girl. "Don't touch anything. We'll clean up."  
  
"Don't bother. We're not staying." Wes turned on his heel and was halfway to the manager's office before Angel could stop him. The vampire made the mistake of grabbing his former partner's right arm. Wesley shook off the restraining hand and swung with his left fist. Angel reared back and the blow missed his chin by only millimeters. "Hey! It's just me." He moved out of range and held up his hands to show he didn't mean any harm.  
  
The Englishman's posture remained tense, but he gave a single nod of acknowledgement.  
  
"Did I grab your wounded arm?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Did I hurt you? Is it bleeding again?"  
  
"No."   
  
Angel wasn't sure which question Wes was answering and he could tell the other man didn't care to discuss his wound. He deeply regretted touching Wes at all. "Sorry, I grabbed you. I didn't think. I just wanted to stop you before you throttled the clerk."  
  
From the gleam in the ex-Watcher's eyes it was obvious that was exactly what he was planning.  
  
"I know the room's disgusting," Angel paused as Wes gave him a look. "Okay, disgusting is a gross understatement. But it's 2 AM and we're all exhausted. We can push all the mess to one side, bed down for four of five hours. Once we're rested, we'll hit the road again." The vampire raked a hand through his hair. "There's sleeping bags in the trunk of the convertible. You're welcome to borrow one, but if I know you, you've got a bedroll of your own."  
  
"You don't." Wes said.  
  
Angel was confused. "I don't what?"  
  
"Know me."  
  
For one long moment they stared at each other and Angel knew that it was true. He didn't know this hard, wary Wesley any more than he knew the desperate, secretive Wesley who helped Holtz kidnap his infant son. Worse, he wasn't sure he wanted to know this man. The vampire was suddenly aware that among the losses of the past year was the loyal, mild-manner Wesley who had become his friend. Right then, Angel felt not just tired, but in the grip of a deep emotionally fatigue that four or five hours of sleep in a filthy hotel wasn't going to help. And the last thing he wanted to do was to have a confrontation with Wesley.  
  
"You're right," He conceded. "I don't know you. Not like I used to at least." Angel paused. "But I know that you're well-prepared for any contingency -so I bet you've got camping supplies somewhere in your truck."  
  
Wes nodded.  
  
"I also know you well enough that I can see that you're ignoring how much your arm hurts. You won't even take a painkiller because it might make you drowsy and you can't afford to not be alert."  
  
There was a perceptible stiffening of the other man's spine. The movement made pain flit across Wesley's face.  
  
"Fine. Don't admit it." Angel said appeasingly. Then his voice turned hard. "Just don't put the rest of us in jeopardy because you want to be macho. The hero can't save the girl if he passes out from pain and exhaustion."  
  
Something not quite a smile twitched the corners of Wesley's mouth. "You'll take the first watch?"  
  
Angel nodded.  
  
Wes seemed to relax a bit. His left hand drifted halfway up to the wounded bicep on the opposite arm. Then he caught the vampire staring. His dark-stubbled chin rose. "I won't take any narcotics."  
  
"That's fine. We don't have any."  
  
"I do." Wes said. "Morphine."  
  
Angel tried to hide his shock.  
  
"Well-prepared." Wes explained.   
  
"Any contingency," Angel mused, then his eyes narrowed. "What if the morphine had been found when we were searched at the border crossing? There were dogs."  
  
Wes shrugged. "It can't be detected where it's stored."  
  
The vampire started to protest, but Wes held up his left hand. "The man who modified my SUV used to work for a major drug cartel. He's reformed now, but he still knows how to fool the DEA." He gave a twisted little smile. "Besides, I have the proper papers for it."  
  
Angel wasn't sure what sort of papers were needed for an ordinary citizen to carry morphine around, but he was too tired to persist. "Well, I agree that you shouldn't be under a narcotic right now. But, take some Ibuprofen. And I bet you have supplies to properly clean and rebandage the wound."  
  
They walked over to the SUV. Angel watched as Wes reached into the left rear wheelwell. He pressed some hidden lever or button and an eighteen-inch section of metal along the truck bed popped out slightly. Pain shadowed Wesley's eyes as he used both hands to pull the panel out further. Just when Angel was ready to step in and help, the hidden compartment opened fully. It revealed a large first aid kit. A revolver and a throwing knife sat on top of the box.  
  
Angel didn't say anything about the gun or knife as he removed the first aid kit. He was torn between mourning for the old Wesley who didn't feel so driven to protect himself and awe for this new one who had hidden caches of first aid supplies and weapons.   
  
The latter feeling was increased when he saw how truly well stocked Wes was. He had a military quality first aid kit. In addition to the typical large assortment of bandages, ointments, and sterile gloves, there were several unexpected items. Rehydration salts. Inflatable leg and arm splints. Prepared surgical sutures. Syringes. A straight 5.5" hemostat and its curved counterpart. The vampire picked up the packet labeled QuikClot, feeling the grainy contents through the plastic. "Blood-clotting factor." Angel whistled. "What contingency are you preparing for?"   
  
Wesley's voice was low, emotionless. "After one survives a slit throat, it seems wise to prepare for every possible situation."  
  
Angel put the packet back. He spotted, but did not touch the tiny bottle of morphine. Beside it, there was another larger vial, unlabeled and filled with a thick, straw-colored fluid. "What's that?"  
  
A real smile lit up Wesley's face. "Bacteriophages." At Angel's blank look, he explained. "Bacteria eating viruses. Better than conventional battlefield antibiotics for preventing staphylococcus infections in wounds. They destroy only the specific pathogens and leave the good bacteria alone. It's a pity the U.S. medical establishment is neglecting research into phage therapy. Annually, the Russians and Georgians are avoiding thousands of unnecessary amputations in patients with vancomycin-resistant staph."  
  
With those excited words, he almost sounded like the old Wesley Wyndam-Price, more scholar and scientist than soldier. But, then, many a battle hardened field medic would have envied him the kit.  
  
Angel carefully handed back the vial and stared at the two weapons in the hidden compartment. Every possible contingency. The vampire could imagine Wes grimly preparing for the occasion when he would have to pause in treating his own wounds to fire the revolver or send the knife soaring into the center of someone's chest.  
  
He closed the lid and picked up the heavy kit. Wes leaned against the panel, which noiselessly slid back into place, concealing the weapons. No matter how hard he stared at the side of the vehicle, Angel couldn't detect the seams of the panel. He didn't bother to hide how impressed he was, but he chose not to comment either.   
  
If Wes was expecting a compliment, he didn't show his disappointment. He walked to the back of the SUV and opened the hatch. There was a black dufflebag inside. "Clean clothing and a bedroll," he explained to Angel.   
  
"I suppose there's a weapon or two in there as well." The vampire said. He didn't wait for Wesley's answer, just reached to pull the bag out. The Englishman stepped forward and blocked his way. Angel shook his head, "Would it kill you to let me carry that?"   
  
The former Watcher didn't reply. He stubbornly took the bag and slung it over his own left shoulder. Silently, the former partners walked back to the room.  
  
***  
  
Gunn was fairly pissed when Angel explained that they were staying at the motel. He accepted Angel's offer for the vampire to tackle cleaning up if he would treat Wesley's wound. However, he was hardly mollified. The young man kept up a steady stream of grumbling as he rummaged through the first aid kit for Benzalkonium chloride antiseptic and sterile gauze. A slender hand darted in and snatched the EMT shears. The damphyr moved too fast for Gunn to catch her, but she couldn't evade Angel.  
  
He seized her arms. Lark didn't struggle, but she didn't release the scissors either. In fact, her grip grew even tighter. It was a standoff of sorts. Angel couldn't make her drop them unless he broke her wrist. She couldn't break free.  
  
Wesley approached the two cautiously. He didn't try to wrest the scissors from Lark's hand. Instead he calmly asked, "Why do you want the shears?"  
  
She didn't turn her head from Angel, but gazed out of the corner of one eye. "I want to cut my hair."  
  
"Seems a wise idea," Wes replied.   
  
For a second, the damphyr looked hurt and he regretted his words. But then, she gave him a grim little smile. "I knew it was awful. They wouldn't let me have a mirror afterwards, but later on, I could tell it was bad from the look on Neelson's face. I though he was going to tell Molinero that the deal was off."  
  
Angel let go of Lark and took a step back. She rubbed the wrist of the hand that held the shears, looking at him suspiciously. "You're fast."  
  
The vampire nodded. "You, too."  
  
"Humans don't move that fast." The girl tilted her head back to see him better. "What are you?"  
  
It was his turn to be skeptical. "You really can't tell?" The look on her face was sufficient answer. The damphyr was scared now. Her grip on the shears shifted so that she now held them like a weapon.  
  
Angel sighed. "Lark, I'm a vampire."   
  
Her grey eyes narrowed. "It won't work, you know. The guy before Molinero tried and the woman before that."  
  
"What won't work?"   
  
She looked away. "Breeding me to make more."  
  
There was an awful silence in the room. Gunn felt physically ill. Lark really had been a slave. And she'd been treated like his Mama Susanna. Little more than a child herself and someone wanted to wrest life from her womb.   
  
Angel was too aghast to say anything, but Wesley spoke softly. "Lark, we have no intention of that sort. Or of doing anything else to exploit you. Angel isn't going to hurt you. None of us are."  
  
Both Angel and Gunn nodded. Wes continued, "I know that it's hard to believe right now, but all we want to do is help you. Perhaps you'd like us to take you to your family or friends."  
  
Her expression suddenly went from wary to carefully blank and he knew he'd hit some nerve. "Or," he quickly continued, "if you'd like to be on your own, we can help with that, too. We can find you a job, an apartment." He paused. "There's a third alternative. You can come stay with us. Angel has a hotel. There's another young woman living there. Her name is Fred and, like you, she used to be a slave. We rescued her from a terrible place. She came back to LA with us and now she helps save other people."  
  
Gunn moved slowly and carefully, but the damphyr startled at the movement. She wheeled around and fixed him with a hard stare. "Easy," he told her. "I just want to show you this." He drew his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a photo. He held it out at arms length. "That's Fred. She's my girl."  
  
Lark sidled a foot closer and peered at the picture. A thin young woman with long brown hair smiled up at her. "It's just a picture. You could have taken it from a dollar-store frame."  
  
"Okay, here's another one." Gunn hesitated, shooting slightly guilty looks at Angel and Wesley. "It's all of us together."   
  
The snapshot showed grinning adults clustered around an infant. Lark easily recognized the three men she was traveling with and the girl Fred. However, there was a fifth person, a pretty young woman with dark blonde hair and darker roots. She held the sleeping baby close and her hazel-eyes were focused on Angel.  
  
Lark looked at the vampire. "Is that your wife and baby?"  
  
He swallowed. "Not my wife. A very good friend. Cordelia."  
  
"But the baby is yours?"  
  
"Yes. My son, Connor. Only he's not a baby anymore."  
  
She looked at the photo again. "He's what...two or three now."  
  
"More like seventeen." Angel couldn't help but smile at her look of disbelief. "It's a long story."  
  
"Too long for tonight." Wes said gently. "We still have more than a day's drive back to Los Angeles. There will be plenty of time to hear all about Connor and anything else you want to know."  
  
She opened her mouth and then shut it.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Um, are you two...? You know..."  
  
Gunn started laughing. "Are we part of the allergic to sunlight crowd?"  
  
Angel rolled his eyes. "They're human. Look behind you."  
  
Lark turned and saw that the cracked wall mirror showed three reflections. She shrugged. "That doesn't mean anything. I have a reflection and I'm not exactly human."  
  
Gunn yawned. "As interested as I am in exactly what you are, Wesley's right. This can wait for tomorrow."  
  
The girl assented. "I'm going to cut my hair first though." She disappeared into the bathroom. When the door closed behind her, the three men exhaled.   
  
Gunn shook his head as he stuck the photos back in his wallet. He walked back over to the first aid kit, motioning to Wes to follow. The ex-Watcher slipped off his leather jacket. Without it, he was bare-chested, having sacrificed his t-shirt for makeshift bandages. Those cotton strips were soaked through with blood now. Since Lark had the shears, Gunn drew a knife from his boot sheath. He sterilized it with liberal amounts of rubbing alcohol, then carefully slid it between the cloth and Wesley's arm. A quick slice upward and the fabric parted before the razor sharp blade.   
  
The inch-long wound had reopened. After cleaning away the blood and trimming the edges, Gunn decided a few stitches were in order. He sprayed a local anesthetic on the area around the wound and then quickly sutured it closed. A small smear of antibiotic ointment and half a roll of gauze completed the treatment.   
  
Wes moved the arm cautiously and thanked Gunn before dry-swallowing two Ibuprofen. Then, he took a holstered gun and a small pile of clean clothing from his duffle bag. He put on a new t-shirt, wincing slightly as the fabric pulled against the bulky bandage on his bicep. After some consideration, he tossed the clean jeans back into the bag. That left a long-sleeved v-neck Henley. He started to put it on, but then refolded it. The shirt would be a little big, but Lark might find it preferable to the rough peasant tunic she currently wore.   
  
Meanwhile, Angel had managed to clear the detritus of the party from about half of the room. Even after throwing away the trash, the room didn't smell any better, but at least there was room to move around freely. On his return from the dumpster, Angel brought a canvas tarp and three sleeping bags from his car. He was in the process of laying them out when Lark emerged from the bathroom.  
  
All three men turned at the sound of the door opening. She seemed disconcerted by the attention. One hand flew up to her newly cropped head. She'd cut her hair very short. Maybe less than an inch. Damp and without the weight of length, it was curlier than ever. The style was very boyish, but it actually made her face seem more feminine than the earlier haircut. Her jaw didn't look so square now that her cheekbones were revealed. And, free of the awful bangs, her eyes looked larger than before. The clear dark grey irises thinly outlined in black were really her best feature.   
  
Such a changeling, Wes thought. He started to complement her hair, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.  
  
The four turned to the door in unison. According to the clock on the nightstand, it was almost 3 AM. There was a second knock. "Gunn, take Lark into the bathroom." Wes said in a quiet, cold voice. He retrieved the gun as Angel moved toward the door.  
  
"Who is it?" The vampire called. Beside him, Wes grimly drew the pistol from the holster.  
  
After a second's hesitation, someone replied. "It's me, Doug. The clerk."  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
"Uh, I felt bad about giving you this room. Look, there's two clean adjoining rooms on the ground floor. I'll let you have them without any extra charge."  
  
Angel and Wes looked at each other. Wes gave a short, hard shake of his head.  
  
"Thanks, but we're not interested."  
  
"Are you sure? That room was rented by the Jimenez brothers and some whores from the other side of the river. It's gotta be pretty nasty."  
  
Nasty didn't begin to describe it, but that didn't justify the clerk's sudden concern for their comfort.  
  
"Don't worry about us, Doug. I've already cleaned up in here. We're fine for the night."  
  
There was no reply, but they didn't hear footsteps walking away either. There was a different more sinister sound that only Angel could hear. "Down!" he yelled and pulled Wesley to the floor just as the cheap door splintered under a hail of bullets.  
  
Wes rolled clear of the door and then returned fire. He emptied the clip, cursing himself for leaving the spare in the duffle bag. With bullets still flying across the room, he doubted he could reach it now. Still, he took the chance, crawling towards the bag as the remains of the door were kicked in.  
  
Three armed men strode into the room. One had a pistol pointed at Doug's temple. The others aimed their weapons at Wes and Angel. "Freeze."   
  
They were hauled to their feet and watched in dismay as Neelson entered the room. The Texan wore clean clothing, but nose remained swollen and his face was further disfigured with heavy bruising on one side where Angel had struck him. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the two men who had attacked his caravan.  
  
"Where's the damphyr?" he demanded in an evil echo of Wes's own words mere hours ago.  
  
***  
TBC in Chapter 5 


End file.
